<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>the things we keep in cages by Notawriterjustalurker</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674880">the things we keep in cages</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker'>Notawriterjustalurker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Daredevil (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Complicated Relationships, F/M, Light Angst, Love, Poetry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 05:01:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>486</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25674880</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notawriterjustalurker/pseuds/Notawriterjustalurker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"— they're rough diamonds cut from the same stone and she never liked the shiny stuff anyway."</p><p>Loving the devil of Hell's Kitchen is never simple.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matt Murdock/Karen Page</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the things we keep in cages</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Just some sporadic wordy musings from me. Not sure what this is from a literary standpoint I just had some feelings and had to write them down idk 🤷</p><p>Little bit inspired by this quote — "how lost do you have to be to let the devil lead you home?" — The Seven Deaths of Evelyn Hardcastle, Stuart Turton</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>      Loving him was worth it. So far — because it's not like either of them are perfect — they're rough diamonds cut from the same stone and she never liked the shiny stuff anyway.</p><p>      But the nights are bitter — silk sheets offer little comfort when you're all alone, huddling away from the neon crackling behind your eyelids. Maybe that's why it's 3am, and she's resting her head against cool tile, too-hot water soaking down to the roots of more than just her hair, something to wash away the salt.</p><p>      And they're still useless at talking things through — with words at least. They talk with their hands now mostly — their bodies. Matt hums a sorry speech into her skin almost every night; more regimented than a prayer. Sometimes she wishes he'd just say it louder, because there's a light-year or two between the surface of her and her heart.</p><p>     And when he brings the cold air in with him, night after night, a halo of city smog, black as the devil doesn't deserve to be — she wonders how many lives he's saved today — she <em>wonders</em>, but she rarely ever asks. He doesn't ask either, not anymore. But she's always relieved to see him — alive and breathing, copper eyes and unreactive pupils – hands on her like it's the first time in an age.</p><p>       It's not romantic — romance is for people that swaddle the idea of love in woolen blankets; that point at love from behind a pane of glass because it's that shiny thing and it's rare — it's <em>delicate</em>: it's champagne flutes and paper swans and candles, and sure, it's pretty — but it's not <em>this</em>. </p><p>       No one <em>asks</em> for this. </p><p>       But his lips feel even more beautiful when they're glistening; memories of kissing in the rain, a million tiny miles away — </p><p>        — some days she can see it if she squints — </p><p>      Either way, it's simpler like <em>this</em>, when their foreheads are pressed and there's nothing left except love and agony; slick black fabric closer to his skin than ever: armour that stops her from having all of him — and yet, she likes it better.</p><p>       And there's blood coming from somewhere — there always is; she questions herself because that's the least surprising thing about this: tendrils of red against white, stark and shocking — but she's not looking at that, she's looking at him, and his arms wrap her in an embrace that says:</p><p>   <em>   It's okay</em>.</p><p>      Rough night.</p><p>      Bad day.</p><p>      Let's call it even.</p><p>      And he'll drag a thumb downwards, peel open her lips, slow. Follow it with his mouth, ragged breaths that tell her there's no cracks in his bones tonight — he's got time for her if she's still got room to let him in.</p><p>      And she does. She always does. Because they own tiny little pieces of each other now and that's just the way it is. It's cruel and it's perfect — as much a curse, as it is a gift.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>